


Fine Wares Merchant

by StoneCatcher



Series: Fine Wares Merchant / Modern AU [1]
Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Alcohol Usage, Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Modern AU, POV Second Person, Safe For Work, Swearing, nondescriptive sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:10:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoneCatcher/pseuds/StoneCatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You needed to get away from the heat of your scandal. France seemed like a nice place.<br/>You just needed to lay low and relax, and then maybe, you could go back to playing baseball again.<br/>~<br/>Slow build Modern AU told in "your"/ The Batter's perspective, implied sex.<br/>Domestic Batterie fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You were a baseball player who'd seen better days; Mostly before the scandal. She was a beautiful Norwegian model, by the name of Vader Eloha. You'd loved her, and for a while, she loved you.  
Three months after Hugo had been - illegitimately - born, she discovered that your name wasn't the only thing you shared with your father. You have his hands, his height, and most importantly, his anger. You haven't seen your son since; She won't allow it. You still pay child support, though, because that's the kind of man you are.  
So, you went away, hoping to slip under the radar until the heat of your relationship with Vader was off; Maybe you could get back to playing. You didn't plan to stay in France long, as your French was rusty and the apartment felt a little too big. A little too empty. And you were just a tad lost, and possibly drunk.  
That's when he approached you, obviously trying to sell you something. You can't really recall, now. Looking back, though, you do recall sex. Sex with a masked man that you'd never met before, muttering things in French you were too drunk to understand.

That seemed to catch things up to the present.

Upon waking, you were assaulted with two thoughts: The first being  _My fucking head hurts_ , the second being _This is not my apartment._ Cautiously, you pull on your discarded pants and exit the unfamiliar bedroom. The scent of food wafts up from downstairs, signifying somebody else is here. 

Without turning around, He greets you as you stumble into the kitchen. "Good morning, sunshine~" He's got a lilting sort of voice, cheerful and warm, someone who's practiced in the art of dealing with people. Somebody who knows how to talk someone into just about anything.  
Belatedly, you remember fucking him senseless, the night previous.  
"I don't believe I caught a name, last night, amigo." Spanish? That was interesting. You could've swore he'd been speaking in French, before.  
He'd turned, and was looking at you. Or, so you assumed.  
It was hard to tell, with that mask covering his face.

"Batter. People call me The Batter." And, that's as close to a name as you ever planned on telling him. But, much like you'd not planned on staying more than a few months, things would have a way of proving you wrong.

"Most people call me Zacharie." He chuckled, scooping some stereotypical breakfast foods onto a plate, handing it over. You grumbled something, probably a thanks, though it was hard to tell behind your confusion.  
Zacharie fixed himself a plate, though made no move to eat as he sat down at a small dining table. Secretly, you wanted him to, if only to see the face of the man you'd apparently slept with.  
"You're from the US, I'd guess? Somewhere up North, judging by your accent?" He asked as you ate. It was good; probably the best you'd ate since...

Well.

You nod. "I thought you were French."  
He chuckles. It's a stupid, silky, melted chocolate kind of chuckle - one that you fantasize about; imagine drinking down like a fine wine. It's the kind of noise someone could get off to.  
You try not to think further on that topic, lest you miss his answer.  
"I am, my dear Batter! You didn't seem to have the best grasp on the language, though, so I thought I'd make it a bit easier on you." Zacharie hums, and you could picture a coy smile on his face, if you knew what he looked like.  
But you don't.

"Second language." You reply, partially in defence, partially because he has a way of making you talk.  
"Ah!" Zacharie chuckles again. "French is my native language. Spanish my second, English my third. So, I apologize if I misspeak."  
Somehow, you didn't think he was afraid of saying something wrong.  
He was too coy for that.  
Zacharie was bragging in a soft, run around kind of way. It was fucking irritating - It got under your skin.

You loved it.

That's how things had started. You'd run into him a lot, putzing about the city.  
Zacharie would try to sell you things - himself included - in that strange, satiny voice of his. He gave you his card, complete with address and phone number, in case you needed anything. Directions, mostly.

It was easy to brush him off, at first. It got harder as time went on, and you felt strangely pressured. Zacharie wasn't forceful about his propositions, and was - all in all - quite casual about the whole arrangement. You weren't sure why it was so... troublesome.  
You weren't sure why it drove you to lay awake, a nervous sweat soaking the sheets of your bed; Too big, too empty. Eventually, countless nights of imagining what kind of face a voice like that had wore on you.  
It didn't matter. You'd come here to relax, unwind. Get away from it all for a while. And if the _'fine wares merchant'_ , as Zacharie called himself, was offering, who were you to deny him?

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 "You look tired, amigo."

His voice, despite it's usual warm nature, was alarming. You tensed, nearly toppling out of your seat at the little nameless bar, on a street you could care less about.   
He tensed, as well, flinching away. "Ah, sorry about that. I didn't mean to startle you." You felt bad, and shook your head no. After a few moments, you nodded simply to the seat next to yourself. A little part of you was relieved when he took it.

The two of you talked: Rather, he talked, and you listened. Zacharie talked a lot about his work; Places he'd been, people he met, things he sold. He seemed pretty fond of the job, and, from what you'd seen of his apartment, it paid pretty well. Eventually, it came out that you were a baseball player, taking some time off to think.

He laughed at that. Not a cruel laugh, but that delicious little chuckle that made your insides tense. That stupid laugh that made it impossible to sleep most nights.   
Zacharie had probably guessed at your occupation, you realized, given the nickname. And that, in turn, made you laugh. But, only the smallest bit.

Still, he noticed, and for the briefest of moments, was still and silent, yet soft. You could imagine that, under the mask, he had a soft expression, and it made you feel a little bit sick. Perhaps with worry, perhaps with fear.   
Perhaps with something else.

You ended up sleeping with him, again. Despite all his offers at trading sex for money, he didn't make you pay, the following morning. And, like before, he cooked breakfast, and didn't eat until after you'd presumably left.

The third time around, Zacharie mentioned that, if you felt the need, you could use his shower before heading out. You passed.   
The fourth time, he was gone before you woke up, but there was a note, and some pancakes.   
The fifth time, you left before he awoke. You ran into the merchant and apologized, saying you'd had urgent business to attend to - it wasn't an entire lie. He just laughed.   
The sixth time, you tried to take off his mask. He caught your hand in his own and, almost playfully, wagged a finger at you as he chuckled mysteriously.  
The seventh time, you used his shower.

You stopped counting, after that. It became routine. You'd run into him in the city. You didn't go home with him every night, no, but you did see him - if only briefly - almost every day. You ate together a lot, yet some how never saw his face. You'd get drinks together, yet going back to Zacharie's apartment completely pissed was becoming rarer and rarer.   
You told yourself that it was because you wanted to remember his face, should the mask come off.

It was more than that, looking back.

  
  


The bar had been growing rowdy, and, over the crowd, you suggest that - since he'd never seen your place before - Zacharie come home with you, this time around. Much to your delight, he agreed. More drinks were broken out, and, for a long time, you both sat in the living room, just talking.

"So, why are you here, exactly? Family?" Zacharie asked, though knew at this point not to expect a solid answer from you, if any at all. "Not that I'm complaining, I've had quite a lot of fun, lately~"   
It wasn't meant to be hurtful, you knew that. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but, you sighed. Only a little.   
That got his attention.   
"Let me see your face, and I'll tell you."

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

 He fidgeted, quite noticeably, seemingly caught between wanting to know, and not wanting to take the mask off. You figured he'd drop it, and the conversation would, naturally, turn somewhere else. You turned to the side, grabbing your drink. You moved to take a swig, disrupted by a soft click.

The mask was on the table. Zacharie wasn't looking at you - at least, not with his eyes. There were scars on his face, and you could remember there being some on his neck. They weren't large, nor distracting, but they were certainly there.   
You're buzzed, and you know it. Perhaps you're doing things you wouldn't normally, but, you reach up, and rub a thumb along a scar near his lips, curiously.

"That isn't why, particularly." Zacharie mumbles, eyes still cast aside. His form is rigid, his voice is tense. It's so unlike his fluid nature that you feel suddenly startled, as though slapped in the face.   
You want to ask why, but your mouth has barely formed the 'w' when he answers.   
"I'm shy, I suppose. I've never cared for showing off my face to others, least of all in public. I started covering it when I was fairly young." He's looking at you, finally, with eyes that are impossibly sad.   
They hardly seem like they should belong to the man with the velvety laugh and coy personality.

Zacharie takes your hand with the same gentleness you've become accustomed to from him, and pulls it away from his face. You go to apologize, but he beats you to it, again.   
"They have bad memories attached to them, the scars." He says simply, lips pulled ever so slightly upwards, a humourless, joyless smile on his features. The Merchant didn't look at all how you'd expected. "So, my dear Batter. Why are you here?" 

Right.   
This had been a deal, after all.   
You nod, and, much to your displeasure, Zacharie slips his mask back on. But, he'd held up his end of the bargain, and now it was your turn.

"I'm taking a break from baseball." You began, knowing full well that wouldn't satiate the man's curiosity. "I... Hm." You'd never been good at this kind of thing, talking about yourself, your feelings.   
Your problems.

"I was involved with a woman. We... Were close, for a time. I accidentally got her pregnant, and, by the time he was born, she'd..." You fall quiet, struggling for words. Part of you wanted to make it sound as simple as possible. A separate part wanted to let Zacharie in, let him know why, how you felt.   
It was easier said than done. 

"She... Saw what kind of person I am. I don't go by my name because I share it with my father. He was an insufferable bastard." You couldn't look at him, not right now.   
Not now that you could imagine that sad fucking expression you knew he was wearing under that fucking stupid mask. You didn't need his sympathy, or gentle touches, or that god damned silky voice. You didn't need his fucking pity, and yet, you knew you ached for it. You could feel yourself burning at the soft 'oh' noise you heard Zacharie make. 

"I'm a bastard in the same fucking way." You seethe, knuckles white from clenching your drink so hard.

Fuck Vader. Fuck Zacharie. Fuck France, and Norway, and that stupid fucking kid you'd never get to see. You'd never get to hold again, or teach how to catch a ball. He'd never know your name, or how fucking sorry you were. Fuck you, Michael Sr. Fuck you for making me this way. 

And you risk a glance over - It's probably the worst mistake you've ever made, because, now that you know what to look for, you can see his eyes. You can see Zacharie's eyes, and you're pretty sure you've never seen a more pained expression in your life. Not when you told your mother you hated her, not when you told Vader she was a stupid, useless bitch. Not even after you'd spent the entire night, bawling like a child, when you got the restraining order in the mail.

And you can't fucking take it anymore.

You scream, and hurl the glass against the wall, pretending you don't notice when Zacharie flinches the way she did, because you're not so sure you can deal with scaring someone off again. Someone you never meant to get close to, someone who was just supposed to be a little fun.

But he's turned into so much more than that, hasn't he?

You shout again, a short bark of an exploitative, and curl in on yourself. You're too buzzed, too miserable, too bitter. You can't take it right now; Not after seeing the Merchant's face, so raw and human. Not after seeing him so... tense. So aware of being bared to you, yet so willing to open himself up and trust.

You burn.   
You fucking burn, and you feel him - in all of his foreign softness - embrace all of your six feet and some odd change of broken. Because at this point, who's going to fucking deny that that's what you are?

Zacharie just holds you there, and you don't even know what kind of noises are made, from that point forward. But, they're more human than you've let yourself be, in a long time, and they're kept secret, between the two of you.

There's broken glass on the floor and in the wall, and there's a splash of booze to boot. Eventually, he gently ushers you to go to bed, and you only agree once it's been clarified that he's coming.   
He even takes off the mask.

You don't have sex that night, or the next night, or the night after that. He doesn't say anything, and things feel a little bit like how they had before, between you and the fine wares Merchant.   
But, he's there. He's there when you sleep, and most of the time when you wake. He's there when you eat breakfast - and he eats too. You see each other, in public, as you go about your business, quite often.

You sell the apartment: You'd never been planning on staying there, anyways.   
You renew your contract elsewhere, and, even though you're still full of holes, you get by.   
You'd never planned on staying in France.   
That was about 2 and a half years ago, now.

"Good morning, Sunshine~" A familiar voice greets you, surrounded by the kitchen in the apartment you've come to call home.

You simply grunt in response.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Cranked this all out in about 2 and a half hours when I couldn't sleep.  
> It is now 6 am.  
> Kill me.  
> Sorry if it's not too great, it's my first work for the fandom, as well as trying to write in 2nd person.  
> Hope you enjoyed, regardless.


End file.
